


to wear it like a crown, to kick before you drown

by cersc



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Illness, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Forbidden Love, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Kissing, Menstruation, Mention of pregnancy complications, Secret Relationship, Sibling Incest, Sick Character, Surgery, Teen Crush, Teen Romance, Twincest, Worried Jaime, Worried Tywin, beautiful golden fools, everyone is worried, well. kind of a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 10:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14399748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cersc/pseuds/cersc
Summary: One night, Cersei falls ill. Very, very ill. Jaime is worried. Very, very worried. Tywin takes them to the emergency room, visions of his late wife's passing flitting through his head. Together, they navigate the troubled waters of obtaining a diagnosis. Family dynamics and cuteness abound.





	1. prelude

When Tywin Lannister awakens to the sight of a man’s silhouette at the foot of his bed, his first bleary thought is to wonder how one of his enemies would have gotten past Casterly Rock’s thorough security system. Only when the silhouette half-whispers a “Dad? Dad, wake up,” does he realize that the form is Jaime’s.

Not an enemy. Not an ally. His own son. 

_Has it been so long?_ Tywin wonders, recalling the last time one of his children sought to wake him in the night. It would have been years ago, when the twins were much smaller. Before Joanna’s passing. And he realizes that it _has_ been so long, for his son’s shadowed form is now more man than boy. “What is it?” he asks, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness of his bedroom, checking the digital clock on the nightstand — 1:17 AM.  

“Cersei’s sick.”

_Cersei is sick_. A complaint Tywin would have expected from someone more boy than man. He sighs, propping himself up on an elbow. “And has Cersei taken any medicine?”

Jaime exhales sharply, and only then does Tywin notice the creases of worry between his son’s brows. “Dad, she’s _really_ sick. We were watching a movie because she was feeling too ill to get to sleep, and she got up to get a snack, and — God, Dad, I don’t know what happened. She blacked out, I think, or fell down, and then threw up onto the rug — and she’s…” 

“She’s what?” Tywin asks, impatient.

“She’s having her period,” says Jaime in a hushed, slightly embarrassed tone, “but it’s really bad. It's _always_ really bad, but this is..." He rakes a finger through his hair, weight shifting from one foot to the other. "When she got up, I saw that she’d bled through her shorts and all over the couch. I think she’s lost too much blood — she’s pale and shaky and I don’t know what to do.” 

Jaime’s voice breaks on the last phrase, and Tywin is suddenly sitting straight up in bed, thoughts of Joanna running a mile a minute through his head. This is _different_ , of course: Cersei is not giving birth, has not just endured a high-risk pregnancy — but he’ll be damned before he loses two of his girls to this blasted bleeding. She is only _fourteen_. She is too young for this. “Go help your sister into some clean pajamas,” he commands, fully awake now. “I’ll get dressed and bring my car around to the front door. Bring her outside when she’s ready. We’re going to the hospital.”

That a plan is now in place seems to have calmed Jaime somewhat, though he pauses uncertainly in the doorframe. Tywin’s mouth is halfway open to urge him forth when Jaime speaks: “What about Tyrion?”

_Tyrion. Of course_. “I’ll call his nanny,” says Tywin, and he _will_ , but he doesn’t intend to wait up for her. Tyrion can survive twenty minutes alone; most likely, he won’t even know it, asleep in bed. If Cersei is as unwell as Jaime claims, that twenty minutes might be crucial. 

Jaime still lingers in the doorway, looking to his father for reassurance, and this time, Tywin doesn’t hesitate. “ _Go_.”


	2. journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei usually appears to glow. Now, it's as if all the light has leached out of her. Jaime worries the way only a codependent fourteen-year-old can.

He can’t take it.

Seeing Cersei shuffle to the door, an unwavering grimace upon her tear-stained face, shuddering with each step is simply too much. Jaime puts a hand on her shoulder, brows knit together in concern, and when she nods, bends down to slide an arm behind her knees and lift her off the ground. Thankful, for once, for the strenuous workout routine his football coach has him doing each day, for she is light as a feather in his arms.

Her lips move, but no sound comes out. All the better, for if he had to hear the words _I’m scared_ from his sister, his heart would break.

Cersei is never scared.

Cersei is a force of nature — a wildfire. Light seems to emanate from her sometimes, when she’s especially impassioned, as if the glow that lights her spirit can’t be contained by her skin. Jaime recalls the time she reached into the lions’ enclosure at the zoo to stroke the fur of one of the animals, not once daunted by its size or sinewy muscle. He recalls thinking she may as well _be_ that lioness, for all the strength and formidable determination possessed even then.

The girl in his arms bears little resemblance, with her skin drained of color and lips chapped and body trembling and those awful words formed by silent mouth. She curls against him, and he wishes, more than anything, he could somehow feel the pain for her. Could leach it from her body and absorb it into his own.

Since he can’t, he silently vows to do whatever he _can_ to alleviate it. 

Father has pulled the car as close to the front door as he could, and Jaime lowers Cersei carefully, _carefully_ into the backseat. “Are you okay?” he murmurs.

She tries to smile. “Yes.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, attempting to inject his voice with levity — not entirely succeeding. Closes the door, rounds the car, and slides into the other side. “Right, let’s go.”

In other circumstances, Father would likely scold him for taking such a tone with him. In this one, though, it seems he has the same idea, peeling down the long, winding drive and turning onto the main road faster than Jaime can recall him doing before. The sharp turn brings a whimper from Cersei’s lips, then a curse. 

“Here, here,” frets Jaime, guiding her shoulders, “lie down. It’s alright. It’s going to be alright.” Those words are meant to console him more than her. They don’t work especially well. In any case, seatbelts seem useless at the moment; he unbuckles hers and guides her head into his lap, pushes a spun-gold curl back from her sweaty forehead.

“This is fucking _awful_ ,” she murmurs, eyes closed, brows furrowed, as if concentrating entirely on willing away the pain.

“I know, sister. I know.” Takes her hand in his free one and gives it a squeeze. “Dad, how much longer?” And usually, Father is _Father_ , but _God_ , they need a Dad right now.

“Soon,” he says, voice tight. It seems strange that he cares so much, so _visibly_ — he hasn’t so much as smiled at them for years, let alone shot frantically out of bed in the middle of the night to help them. But strange is not necessarily bad, and in fact, just now it seems a veritable blessing. Jaime wonders if something about this is reminding him of Mother, of that horrible night. 

For his own part, he tries not to think about that just now. Not when Cersei is bleeding and throwing up and unable to walk on her own. No, Cersei is going to be fine. She _has_ to be fine.

When they arrive, after what feels like an hour but was closer, in practice, to twenty minutes or so, Jaime runs around the back of the car once more to fetch his sister. Lifts her once more into his arms, then lowers her into a wheelchair provided by a member of hospital staff. He should thank the woman, probably, but his brain won’t let him — it feels overheated somehow, thoughts and worries flying through it at the speed of light. So he simply follows.

They are lucky. There is only one person in the waiting room, and it appears he has already been triaged. A tall, thin nurse with a mane of tightly-curled hair is at Cersei’s side almost instantly, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around her arm and clipping a pulse oximeter to her finger. He fills out her intake form to speed along the process, handwriting coming out messier than usual — not that it’s ever especially _good_ — listening intently all the while.

“What brings you in tonight, sweetheart?”

He expects his sister to retort, tart-tongued, that she is not the nurses’s sweetheart. Instead, Cersei groans, “It hurts. It hurts _bad_.”

“What hurts?”

“I’m on my period, but it doesn’t feel like cramps. It feels like I’m being stabbed.”

“Are you having heavy bleeding?”

“I’ve been through three tampons in the last two hours.” Jaime doesn’t know what the standard is for tampons per hour, but that sounds excessive even to his untrained ears. “And I’ve thrown up twice, and I think I blacked out for a minute earlier.”

“She did,” he hurries to say, and the nurse looks up at him with tender eyes. Probably, she notices the resemblance between them, sympathizes with the delirium of worry one feels for one’s family when things like this happen. Probably, she sees it quite often in this job. “We were watching a movie and she got up and got very faint. Sat down on the rug with her head in her hands for a minute, and then she threw up, and then passed out. Just for a few seconds.” A few of the worst seconds of his life.

The nurse looks to Cersei, who nods. “That’s all.”

Father hurries in the door, back from parking the car. As the nurse finishes up collecting information, he takes her aside, speaking in a low voice. Jaime wheels Cersei’s chair to the waiting area and takes a seat next to her.

She’s watching Father, hands clasped over her belly, knuckles gone white. “What do you think he’s saying?”

“I think he’s bribing her to get you back there sooner, get the very best doctors to look at you.” He’s only halfway kidding.

Cersei’s eyes close, and the faintest ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. It’s enough to restore a little heart to Jaime — enough to restore his strength, because while she has so little, he has to share his own. “I hope so,” she murmurs. “I _really_ hope so.”

They’re called back before the other man in the waiting room. Jaime thinks he should feel at least a little bad, considering he was there before them, considering something could be very wrong with him. But he doesn’t. Not at all. Not when Cersei needs the medical attention this badly. That’s all that matters — and, for now, all Jaime can see.


	3. pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not how Cersei envisioned spending her evening.

“This is _bullshit_.”

Once the nurse leaves, once the painkillers and anti-nausea medication in her veins have taken hold, Cersei gets _angry_. She is still in pain, still clutching her belly and whimpering involuntarily upon attempts to arrange her body into a more comfortable position, but the meds make her care less about it — and that she no longer needs to focus all her energy on holding her stomach acid down helps, too — and she can spare a few thoughts for other matters.

It seems _wrong_ that she should feel this way. She can think of a few people she might wish this sort of pain upon, but not many. She is fourteen years old — too young for her body to betray her this way, too innocent ( _yes, even me_ , she thinks wryly) to deserve it. It is as if there are knives scraping at her insides, flaying her organs and bringing forth more blood than she has ever seen come out of her own body before; it is as if there is an invisible hand wrapped around her stomach, squeezing its contents up her throat. She closes her eyes and wills the hot tears pricking the backs of her eyes away. _I am a lioness. I can’t let myself cry._

Jaime is holding her hand. Usually, he wouldn’t do so in front of Father — they are exceedingly good at hiding any affection that goes beyond the threshold of what other siblings might perform, even if only by a little. They can’t afford to raise even a single eyebrow. (And she is still in a state of wonder at the feelings he brings up in her; she is unaccustomed to the vulnerability inherent in giving one’s heart so fully to another. She thinks she likes it.) 

But just now, goddamn it, she needs a hand to hold.

“Can I help?” he asks for what must be the tenth time since they’ve arrived at the hospital. She ignores the irritation that slices briefly through her mind — _don’t you think I’d have told you if you could?_ — and offers a small, tight smile, all she can manage just now. 

“Just stay with me.” She _could_ handle this alone. But she doesn’t _want_ to.

His lips curve into a smile similar to her own, and the sheer adoration in his eyes brings a rush of love to her heart. “Always,” he says. 

If this thing attacking her belly was a person, Jaime would have pummeled it to a pulp by now. 

She squeezes his hand, mouths _I love you_ subtly, so Father can’t see from the chair in which he sits his silent vigil, elbows on his knees, chin rested on thumbs, hands pressed together in front of his mouth. This has brought out a side of him she has not yet seen; it feels as if she has stepped into a different universe with him. Breaks her heart a little that she must reach a state like this one before he pays her this much mind.

Two nurses enter the room, neither the one who administered her medication. “Alright, Miss Cersei,” one of them, the woman, says while the man wraps a blood pressure cuff around her arm _again_ , and Cersei bristles a little at the familiarity ( _I have never seen you before; why have you given me a nickname?_ ), but reminds herself that this woman is here to help. And she _does_ need help. “The doctor has ordered a CT scan. Have you ever had one before?”

“No,” Cersei answers.

“It’s a simple test from your end of things. We’ll take you up to the radiology department and help you onto another bed on the machine. It’ll move you through a sort of tube that will take pictures of your abdomen so we can see if there are any visible problems. Then we’ll send some contrast dye through your IV to get a better look at things. Sound good?”

Well, no, it doesn’t. None of this is good. But Cersei nods anyway.

“Will it hurt?” asks Jaime — rather unnecessarily, as the description of the test seems to indicate that she won’t be touched at all, let alone hurt. But she supposes it’s rather sweet.

The male nurse smiles warmly, reassuringly at him. “No, it doesn’t hurt at all.” Pulls up the rails on either side of Cersei’s bed, detaches her IV from the saline drip, offers to fetch her another blanket (she declines, the one covering her now still feels fresh from the warmer). “Are you ready?” he asks, looking down at her with care in his eyes — this guy, she thinks, is well suited to his profession.

She nods, and he begins wheeling her bed out of the room. “I’ll have her back in a few minutes,” he tells Father and Jaime. Then, in a lower voice (which, of course, she still listens to): “She’s in the best hands. We’re going to figure out what’s wrong and get her feeling better.”

“Good,” say her father and brother in unison, and a faint smile tugs at Cersei’s lips. This is one of the worst nights of her life. But at least she isn’t living through it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with regards to the medical stuff in this story, i'm trying to keep everything as accurate as possible based on my own experiences as well as the knowledge i've accrued from my parents both being nurses. hopefully i don't fuck up too badly! feel free to let me know if i get something horribly wrong.


	4. heartache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei has a test done, and as they settle in to wait for the results, the urgency and newness of the situation feels a little less and the tension feels a little more.

“Exhale.”

Cersei does as the CT machine’s robotic voice instructs, having held her breath as the bed passed slowly through the tube. Her room in the emergency department was hardly comfortable, but she finds herself yearning for it — at least she can curl up under the blankets there. Here, she must hold her arms above her head, body stretched flat as the scan is taken, and it _hurts_ to lie flat, as if her insides are stretched too far. And there, she has the company of her father and twin; here, she is alone save for the man controlling the machine, and even then, he isn’t in the room when the images are actually being taken.

She wonders what they’ll find, looking at her like this. If some dark mass will seal her fate; if it will be something that entails the doctor entering her room with a somber face and _I’m so sorry_ on her lips, or perhaps something no one in the hospital has ever seen before, something requiring admission and a battery of tests and a long stay. Or perhaps it will show nothing at all, and she will be back to square one, with the knowledge that something is wrong yet no clue as to what that something is.

And something is definitely wrong. One doesn’t simply feel this way if it _isn’t_. 

Oh, her periods have been awful since the first day of the first one. She remembers being fairly certain she was dying, between the strange bleeding and painful cramping, only learning upon informing Father (and she would smile at the memory of the expression on his face, if she could muster a smile at all) that it was normal and, to her horror, would be occuring monthly from then on. It has gotten somewhat worse since then; she can predict its arrival by the notable fatigue and nausea that begin half a week before, and cannot remember a month in which she hasn’t missed at _least_ two days of school because of it. 

But this is in another league entirely. Periods are miserable, but this — this is _agony_. For the moment, she can forget all her other ambitions and desires — all she wants is to feel _better_.

The radiology tech re-enters the room. Cersei turns her head, glances at him. “Am I done?”

He shakes his head, offering an apologetic smile. “Not quite yet. I need a couple more pictures with contrast dye. Have you ever had contrast dye injected before?” She shakes her head as he sets about preparations. “You might taste it in the back of your throat. And it feels a little strange: you’ll feel warm, and some patients report feeling as if they’ve wet themselves. Don’t worry — it’s just the dye.”

Before she can ask exactly why that happens, the dye is being injected. And yeah, yeah, she’s glad he warned her, because it _does_ feel like that, and even knowing that did _not_ happen, she still feels a little embarrassed. Honestly, this night has already broken many taboos — she would not ordinarily discuss her menstrual cycle in such detail, nor pee in a cup like she had to do upon admission for _any_ reason, nor throw up in front of Jaime (she shudders inwardly, unspeakably relieved that he doesn’t seem put off by any of this — that, in fact, he has been nothing but comforting and concerned) or anyone else. None of it seems to matter much in the face of how she feels. 

She wants to be _better_. And a little embarrassment won’t keep her from doing anything she can to make that happen.

“Done _now_?” she asks again, after the tech has come back once more, and this time, he nods.

“All done. It’ll be just a little bit before you get these results; we’ll get you back to your room in the meantime.”

And they do, and she’s as pleased with it as she imagined she would be after the discomfort of the radiology department. Jaime is at her side once more in a flash. “How was it?” he asks.

“Fine.” Cersei pauses. “Not my idea of a _great_ time.” Of course, nothing that has happened tonight _is_.

“It didn’t hurt?”

“Jaime.” Father’s hard voice makes twinned heads turn toward it at the same time. “The nurse informed you before taking her up that she would not be hurt. Stop your dramatics.”

Protectiveness surges through her. “To be fair, I’ve been hurt _enough_ tonight. _Someone_ might as well worry about it.” Father rarely tolerates snapping, but she can’t imagine even _he_ would reprimand her when she is in this state. His eyes narrow pointedly, but otherwise, her hunch seems to be correct; just in case, she sighs, pulls her legs in even closer to demonstrate that yes, she is _hurting_ , and yes, she is _sick_. “Will you find me another blanket?” she asks in a sweeter tone — even adds a “Please?”

For a moment, he looks as if he might not. But then he stands, exits the room. Cersei turns back to Jaime, whispering rapidly, for she does not know how much Father will have to look before he finds said blanket. “I’m sorry tonight has been gross. I love you.”

“Gross?” he whispers back, amusement now glimmering in his eyes alongside the worry and love she has been so grateful for all evening. “It’s not gross. _I’m_ sorry you feel so shitty. I wish I could help. I love you, too.”

He looks as if he wants to kiss her — no, he always looks as if he _wants_ to kiss her. He looks as if he _will_ kiss her until Father’s footsteps sound beyond the curtain-covered doorway and Jaime springs back from her.

Cersei focuses on the pain to keep a smile from forming on her lips. It seems this state she’s in hasn’t _only_ served to decrease taboos in _her_ mind.

“Here you are,” says Father, “fresh from the warmer.” He stands at the foot of the bed for a moment, looking a little awkward — it’s strange, really, since Cersei can’t recall a time when he didn’t look as if he belonged perfectly in his environment. “Shall I help you with it?” he asks eventually, and this time, she can’t keep back the smile. Oh, she’s angry and saddened that after Mother’s death he saw fit to retreat emotionally from her and Jaime — but to see cracks form in that veneer, even if only because of the situation, warms her from the inside out.

Any other time, she might not show it. Might see fit to punish him, in a way, by snapping once more, shutting him out. Just now, though? “Yes,” she says, and lets her father tuck her in for the first time in years.


	5. frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although she enjoys the attention Jaime pays her and the rare affection from Father, Cersei would rather none of this had happened at all.

“We’ve gotten your CT results back,” says the doctor, and Cersei steels herself for the worst. When it comes, though, it’s in an unexpected form: “We couldn’t see anything wrong.”

A wave of nausea rises in her belly. Nothing wrong? Nothing causing the unfathomable pain that landed her in the hospital in the first place? “Are you _serious_?” she asks, before she can stop herself.

“I know it can be frustrating.” Understatement of the year. Cersei had hoped that something would show up clearly and unmistakably on the images, that they would be able to fix it while she’s here, that she would be discharged to recover at home, that nothing like this would ever happen again. “It doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason you’re feeling so bad — just that that particular test didn’t show what it was. Now, I have a few questions for you before deciding what to do next. They’re a little personal.” The woman casts a short glance at Father and Jaime. “Would you like your family to leave the room?”

“It’s fine,” says Cersei, too shaken by the test results (or lack thereof) to decide otherwise. “Just ask.”

“Alright. I see in your chart that you mentioned your periods are often ‘bad’. Has something like this happened before?”

“Not… really,” she responds, searching her memories. “I mean, I usually have to stay home from school on the first and sometimes second day because of the cramps, and sometimes they make me throw up, but it’s never been like _this_ before. Is that not normal?” Because she knows that the other girls at school complain about their periods all the time, about the cramps and the tiredness and the general sick feeling, and though her own experience seems a little more intense, she figured she was just unlucky.

“Not for everyone,” answers the doctor, irritatingly noncommittal. Cersei’s vexation rises still further. “Now, have you ever experienced pain with intercourse—“

Her cheeks flush pink as she protests. “I’m a _virgin._ ” Probably not for _long_ , but for the time being.

“—or,” the doctor continues, unflustered, “masturbation? Putting in a tampon?”

“I don’t do that,” Cersei lies regarding the first choice. She _does_ , and sometimes it _does_ hurt, and maybe she _should_ have sent Father and Jaime out. “But putting in a tampon is painful if I’m having especially bad cramps.”

The doctor hums in thought, folding her arms before her body. “Here’s what I’m thinking. From the symptoms you’ve listed and the fact that your CT scan, blood work, and urinalysis all came back normal, it seems as if this is more of an ongoing issue that you’ll need to speak with a specialist about. I’m going to send you home with some medicine to keep the pain and nausea under control, and write you a referral to a gynecologist. I want you to make your appointment as soon as possible.”

“Why can’t you do something about it _now_?” butts in Jaime, who, until this point, has been listening silently and dutifully. The question sounds whiny even to Cersei’s ears, but she would be lying if she denied that she wondered the very same thing.

The doctor smiles at Jaime with kindness that would be patronizing if it didn’t appear so genuine. “I know it must be frustrating to see your sister so sick. The prescriptions I’m sending her home with will help a lot with the symptoms, get her feeling better. But there are many conditions that could be the underlying cause of this, and none of them are the sort that we can treat in a single night. Seeing a specialist will mean someone with in-depth knowledge of these conditions can assess her and perform tests to figure out what’s going on, then prescribe the most effective and efficient treatments possible.”

It sounds so simple when put like that — _too_ simple considering the way that she’s feeling tonight. Cersei opens her mouth to speak, but Father does so before she can figure out just what she’s going to say. “I want her seeing the best doctor available. Cost is not a prohibiting factor.”

“I understand, of course. I’m referring her to a wonderful gynecologist who specializes in treating issues like PCOS, endometriosis, and uterine fibroids. They’ll get this figured out in no time.” Cersei has no idea what any of the listed conditions are. She isn’t sure she _wants_ to know — knows it’ll just make her paranoid until her appointment rolls around. The doctor turns to her with another of those warm smiles, and Cersei can’t help but scowl — it’s _easy_ to smile when you’re not the one in the hospital bed, when you’re not the one without any answers. “I’m going to order one more dose of the medicines you got earlier to make sure you can get through the night, send those prescriptions to the pharmacy, then get you out of here. Sound good?”

_Not really_ , Cersei thinks. It feels as if, though logically she knows this is not the case, no one is doing enough to help her. Treating the symptoms is well and good, but does it mean that this will happen again? That she will be left alone to suffer until the gynecologist can fit her into what is likely an incredibly busy schedule?

But more than anything, even arguing, she wants to sleep. Ideally for ten or eleven hours, until the worst of this has passed. “Alright,” she murmurs.

She is silent during the discharge process. Doesn’t even ask what Father is doing when he leaves the room to speak with the doctor again. When Jaime asks how she’s feeling now, she simply shrugs. Who would have thought the news that medical tests have come back normal could be so disheartening? So frustrating? Once safely bundled into the backseat of the car again, she closes her eyes, focusing on the relief provided by the fresh doses of pain and nausea medication in her veins rather than the negative thoughts permeating her brain — if she lets herself think too hard, she’ll make things worse for herself physically, too.

When they arrive at home, Father pulls the car around to the front door once more. “Help your sister up to her room and fetch her anything she needs,” he tells Jaime. “I’ll dismiss Tyrion’s nanny, then be up shortly.” Jaime nods as he gets out of the car and, even though she’s fairly sure she could shuffle inside on her own, lifts her into his arms again — and she can’t say she isn’t grateful, that it isn’t comforting to breathe in the scent of laundry detergent and soap and clean sweat from his neck, to feel the strength of his body against hers. 

He sets her down next to her bed, then pulls back the covers for her, and Cersei doesn’t think the plush mattress, fluffy pillows, and warm blankets have ever been more comfortable when she sinks into them, curls up into a tight ball. Jaime tucks her hair behind her ear. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“How are you, _really_?”

For a moment, Cersei is silent. “Angry.” Exhales sharply and opens one eye to look at her brother — so steadfast, so loyal. “That they couldn’t figure this out. That this is happening in the first place — that there’s something that needs to be figured out at all.” That she has been reduced to _needing_ so much: needing help to the car, needing medicine at the hospital, needing a battery of tests run on her, needing answers that she hasn’t gotten, needing so desperately not to be alone. It is the antithesis of who she is; it feels wrong, and it is difficult to acknowledge. She doesn’t even verbalize the notion to _Jaime —_ just mentally adds it to a list of things making her chest feel tight, her belly feel hot.

“I wish I could help,” he says. “I wish I could feel it in your place.”

“No, you don’t,” she chuckles darkly, although she knows he _does_ , he truly does. 

A knock at the door signals Father’s presence, and he steps into the room with the same sort of awkwardness Cersei noticed at the hospital. She wonders with a touch of bitterness if, when she wakes up in the morning, this visible emotion will have disappeared from him once more. “Feeling better?”

“Than before we left? Absolutely. Back to normal? Absolutely not.” Cersei sighs, pulling the blankets tighter around her shoulders. “I just want to sleep before the medicine wears off.”

“A wise decision,” says Father. “You needn’t worry about a thing tonight. I’ll see to it that your school knows you won’t be coming in tomorrow — or you, Jaime. Not after the night you’ve both had.” He isn’t typically lenient when it comes to their school attendance; Cersei wonders how long this will last. “I’ll personally pick up your prescriptions as soon as the pharmacy opens and get in touch with the doctor you’ve been referred to.” She recognizes the tightness in his voice, the set of his jaw — he is determined. “I want you seen as soon as possible. My understanding is that it often takes four to six weeks to make an appointment with a specialist, but I’ll pull some strings, get you in sooner.”

Cersei’s father might never say aloud that he hopes she feels better, that he will do whatever he can to _make_ her feel better, that he loves her and seeing her like this is hurting him, too. But, in his own language, he has communicated the ideas. A slight smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Thank you.”

“I’m staying in here tonight,” Jaime declares brashly, and Cersei is about to tell him what a foolish thing he has said before Father agrees.

“Good. Cersei, if you need anything in the night, don’t hesitate to wake him.”

“Free rein to make you do anything I want? Maybe being sick has _one_ bright side,” she laughs sleepily — an innocent statement of sisterly antagonism where Father is concerned; something entirely more wicked to Jaime, though she doubts he _actually_ expects her to do anything but sleep tonight. 

And, indeed, she can barely keep her eyes open through saying good night to Father, watching Jaime flick the lights off and climb into bed, cupping her body with his as he slides an arm over her waist, careful to keep his hand away from her tender abdomen. “He’ll come in to check on me in the morning and see you,” she murmurs, though cannot summon any urgency through the haze of sleep rapidly descending upon her.

“I’ll move on top of the covers before I fall asleep. Just let me hold you for a while.”

Cersei cannot argue. For once, she doesn’t want to, either.


	6. butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after Cersei's emergency room visit, she stays home from school, with Jaime to take care of her. He wishes there was more he could do. She wishes there was more ANYONE could do. But they're happy, at least, to have each other's company.

It’s not like Jaime particularly _likes_ school. Algebra is tedious, biology is boring, English lit comes harder to him than to others because of his dyslexia — history, he supposes, can be interesting at times, as can his electives, and there’s always football practice, but overall, there are many other places he would rather be, other ways he would rather spend his time. Today, though, he almost yearns for the familiar halls and classrooms, the smell of books and pencil shavings and girls’ perfume and boys’ body sprays. 

If he were at school, that would mean last night never happened. If he were at school, that would mean Cersei felt better.

But he isn’t, and she doesn’t, and there is only so much he can _do_ about it, which is driving him out of his mind. Jaime is not one to sit on the sidelines. He prefers to be right in the thick of things, taking action toward his goals. 

And, to an extent, he is doing the same today. There is nothing in the world he wants more at the moment than to see his sister restored to her usual health and vigor, so he has created a nest of plush pillows and soft blankets on one of the cushy sofas in the home theater room for them, slid an ottoman under Cersei’s fuzzy-sock-clad feet, made her a cup of hot tea, set out an assortment of her favored snacks and beverages so that she won’t have to move far in the case of a craving, started one of the bad horror movies that make up her list of guilty pleasures, created a chart to keep track of when she takes her medications and when she can have the next dose…

Yet still she is pale and shaky, dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled into an unkempt ponytail, grimacing and clutching a heating pad tight over her belly, and the sheer powerlessness to help makes Jaime’s chest ache. Probably not as much as Cersei’s own — for someone who revels in control, it must be driving her mad not to have any over her own body.

He rests his head against her shoulder, closing his eyes to the gore-fest flickering on the screen before them as he inhales the scent of her. Feels like she should smell like hospitals and blood and unwashed hair, yet somehow the fresh lavender scent of her shampoo or body wash or perfume or whatever-it-is overpowers all of that. Under the blankets, he slides his hand into hers, lacing their fingers together — a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as she squeezes his palm. Oh, if only they were left home alone together more often — under better circumstances, ideally.

“You good?” he asks, the same thing he has asked every half-hour since they woke up. Knowing Cersei, if there is something he could possibly do for her, she would tell him (or demand it of him, depending on just how miserable she felt at the moment), but he asks all the same.

“Not really.” (The same thing she has said each time he has asked.) “I don’t know if there’s anything you can do, though. Or anything I can do. Or anything anyone can do.” She glances at the chart on the coffee table beside the sofa. “When can I have more medicine?”

“Which medicine?” he asks, picking up the sheet of paper. Breaks his heart a little, how many options are listed there.”

“For the pain. And the nausea, ugh — I want to finish that popcorn,” and she nods at the bowl of sweet-and-salty kettle corn on the otherwise-unoccupied third couch cushion, “but if I eat anything right now, I’ll puke.”

Jaime traces a finger down the page. “Oh, good news: you get more Percocet and Phenergan in half an hour. That’s just about how long this movie has left. Can you hold out ’til then?”

She nods, though one corner of her mouth is twisted downward. “Don’t suppose I have a choice.”

“Oh, sister. Sweet sister,” Jaime sighs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close.Cersei curls herself up at his side and rests her head upon his chest, over his heart; he strokes her arm at the hem of her sleeve (which is actually _his_ sleeve, as she’s wearing one of his soft, worn-in t-shirts), brows furrowing at the heat of her skin. “Are you running a fever?” She shrugs. “Should I get the thermometer?”

“Please don’t. I want you to stay right here.”

And oh, while he’s a little worried about her temperature, he’s more so touched by how openly she displays her desire for closeness. His pulse quickens as a slight flush kisses his cheeks. _Cersei_ , he thinks. _My sister, my twin, my Cersei._

“Well… I guess the pain meds have Tylenol in them, right? That helps with a fever. So even if you _are_ running one, it’ll be better soon,” he reasons, more so to reassure himself than to reassure her — and to distract him from the exquisite ache in his chest.

Cersei nods. “I don’t really think that’s what it is, anyway. I think it’s just a hot flash.” She pulls a face, which makes him chuckle. “If I _have_ to have menopausal symptoms, can I at least have the no-more-periods part too?” Clicks the heating pad remote off and tosses it to the floor. “That isn’t helping matters. And I feel like it’s starting to burn me.” She lifts the hem of the t-shirt to examine her belly; it is, indeed, red where she clutched the heat against her, and she’s more bloated than Jaime has ever seen her. 

The irritation in her expression melts into something like despair, which makes Jaime’s own features crease in concern. Emerald eyes grow shiny in the light of the movie screen. “The heating pad is one of the only things that’s helping, but it’s hurting me in a different way. This is _such_ bullshit.” She swallows thickly, and he knows exactly what’s going through her mind: she refuses to let herself cry. “Why is this happening to me, Jaime? What the _fuck_ is going on with my body?” 

“Oh, Cers.” He angles himself toward her, wraps one arm ‘round her waist and the other ‘round her shoulders, one hand cradling her head to his chest, the other making long, slow strokes up and down the curve of her spine. “We’ll get it figured out soon. Your doctor’s appointment is in two days — just two!” Jaime had worried, before the appointment was scheduled, that she would have to wait much longer than that, but Father was able to pull some strings, get her in as quickly as possible. “And I’ll go with you, if you want.”

“To the _gynecologist_?” she asks with a hint of amused disbelief, and he’s glad to hear something edging through the anguish, even if only a little. 

“Of course, to the gynecologist. I’ll sit in the waiting room with you and go back to the exam room if you want me to, and hold your hand through all the tests — and if they try to send you home without answers, I’ll make them do even _more_ tests until we get this all figured out. It really doesn’t bother me to hear about your… lady parts. It doesn’t bother me that it’s the type of doctor who deals with lady parts, either. It won’t bother me at all to hear the things they’ll say, see the things they’ll do — I’m not going to let you hurt like this any longer than you have to, and I’m not going to leave you alone while they poke around on you and draw your blood and do whatever else it is they do, Cersei, I promise.”

She kisses him, then.

It isn’t the first time (it’s _far_ from the first time), yet it sends a little ecstatic shiver up Jaime’s spine all the same. Cersei’s lips are soft and warm, tasting of cinnamon tea and honey and vanilla-bean chapstick, and her hands move up his body, grazing his chest and the sides of his neck, before coming to rest on either side of his face. She holds him so sweetly that way — the pads of her thumbs brushing his jawline, fingertips stroking the fine hairs at his hairline, skin smelling like lavender lotion. Perhaps it would be cliche to say that the world falls away, leaving only Cersei to infiltrate his mind and intoxicate his body, but oh, is that not exactly what it feels like?

Jaime holds her flush against him with the hand on her back, while the other moves down to travel slowly over the curves of her waist and hips. He longs to touch her more so still, in other places, but the last thing he wants is to aggravate the soreness of her breasts (and other things would be more painful still), so this is as far as he’ll go. And he isn’t dissatisfied with that whatsoever; every part of her is exquisite, and every kiss they share is treasured, even the most chaste — even the ones on cheeks or the corners of mouths that _any_ sister might share with her brother. 

This is markedly not one of those. When Jaime tentatively flicks his tongue over her plush bottom lip, her mouth opens to welcome him in, a soft, purring hum of contentment moving from her lips to his. The sound sends sensations that he absolutely should _not_ be feeling at the moment through his body, and reluctantly, he pulls back, flushing furiously as the movie’s credits begin to roll.

Cersei chuckles, resting a hand over his quick-beating heart as she curls up against him once more. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’m not judging you.”

“I’m judging me,” he mutters.

“You shouldn’t, Jaime.” When she lifts her head to look into his eyes, it’s with sincerity in her gaze. “If I’m honest, it feels _good_ to know that even when I look a mess and have all this gross stuff going on, you still like me. Want me.”

And he can’t help it: he laughs. “Oh, Cers, you’re so wrong about everything you just said.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Her mock offense and dagger-sharp glare are betrayed only by the glint of amusement in her eyes.

“First: you don’t look a mess. You look beautiful. And you well know it, so I don’t want to hear you say otherwise ever again. Second: I told you last night, none of this is gross. It’s sad more than anything — that you feel so sick, that you’re hurting so badly — but it’s not gross. And third: I don’t just like you or want you. I love you.” It’s plainer than he’s ever declared it before, and normally he might be nervous… but the words feel so _right_ upon his tongue.

Cersei’s eyes grow shiny again, but this time, the tears that she won’t let fall are happier. She wraps her arms around his waist and nuzzles her face against his shoulder. “Oh, Jaime. I love you, too.”

And hearing her say it back, fills his ribcage with butterflies.

In a moment, he’ll fetch her next dose and a nice, cold drink. He’ll place the pills upon her tongue, watch her take a sip and swallow them down, then start up another film (maybe a comedy this time — he wants to hear her laugh) and hold her while the medicine starts to work. Before that, though, he’ll enjoy the feel of her in his arms just a little longer.


	7. anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei prepares for a surgical procedure that might have all the answers or might have none at all whilst reflecting on the last few weeks and finding comfort in the presences of her brother and father.

“Are you scared?” 

Cersei narrows her eyes at Jaime, who has asked the same question three times since they arrived at the hospital two hours ago. Perhaps it’s just that he’s tired — it is, after all, seven in the morning; she told him he didn’t have to get up early and accompany her today, but he wouldn’t hear of staying home — but it _is_ starting to wear on her nerves. “You’re more scared than I am,” she replies tartly.

Which is true. Jaime has not stopped fretting since three weeks ago, when she met him and Father in the gynecologist’s waiting room and informed them she would be having surgery. And which is also an excellent way to deflect the question, because, in truth, she _is_ scared, and she does _not_ want to admit it aloud. Anxiety grows as time crawls by. When they arrived — when she checked in, let a nurse take her vitals and stick an IV into the back of her hand, shooed Father and Jaime out of the tiny pre-op room so she could undress, wash her body with the antibacterial wipes provided by the surgeon’s team, and put on her hospital gown — she felt no worries, only the desire to get the procedure over with and go home. 

But with each tick of the clock, it is becoming clearer and clearer in her mind that, in half an hour, she will be naked and unconscious on a cold table surrounded by strangers who will be cutting her open. And that it is _likely_ that the surgeon’s team will see exactly what they expect to see inside her and be able to help, but _likely_ does not mean _guaranteed_. This might not fix anything at all, might not make anything easier — might leave her with some ugly scars, but no more answers nor relief than she had before.

And, yeah. That scares her.

 

~

 

Her first appointment with the specialist, the one just two days after she visited the emergency room, had been rather disappointing. Oh, the doctor herself was fine, and Cersei hadn’t expected to be instantly cured of whatever was making her so miserable, but she had hoped for some sort of solutions, at least — even an educated guess as to what was going on. She received none of that, though. Only instructions to have some blood work and two separate ultrasounds done, then to follow up afterward to go over the test results.

And to her credit, Cersei did so without complaint. Her period that month lasted for fifteen days, each as miserable as the last, and that was enough motivation to spur her into each of her appointments as agreeably as she could manage to be. When she returned to the gynecologist, she almost felt _eager_. Surely, _something_ discovered by the tests would point them in the right direction.

“Well, I’ve looked over your results, and I think we have a couple of options to look at,” said the doctor upon entering the exam room. “Typically, I would suggest starting with fairly conservative treatment, especially to someone so young.” _My youth has no correlation whatsoever with my suffering_ , Cersei had thought irritably, but managed to bite her tongue. “A lot of people have good luck with hormonal birth control.” 

And there, Cersei’s interest had been piqued a little more amenably — she has been wanting so _badly_ , as of late, to have sex for the first time, and this would let her go on the Pill without raising Father’s suspicions. She imagined Jaime’s face upon hearing of this treatment option and smiled, even as the doctor continued speaking.

“We could look into getting you on an oral contraceptive, or even starting injections — those can have more side effects for some, but can also be more effective than the Pill in treating symptoms like the ones you’re having. Once your body has had time to adjust, we can see how you’re doing and add other medications to help if necessary — something for the pain, something for the nausea. And, of course, we could think about physical therapy if your pelvic floor muscles are being affected. I noticed on your chart that you mentioned inserting a tampon can be painful for you if you’re having especially severe cramps.”

Cersei nodded absently. Part of her was simultaneously curious about and horrified at the prospect of the methods of physical therapy that could be used on the pelvic floor muscles — _what would that even entail?_ — but she wouldn’t let herself be distracted. “And the other options?” 

The doctor sighed, one brow furrowing slightly in thought. “Everything we’ve looked at so far — hearing your story, your pelvic exam, these test results — makes me feel fairly confident that you have a disease called endometriosis. Have you heard of that?”

Cersei’s heart had dropped upon hearing those words. She had indeed heard of that, having done some independent research online. To her understanding, it essentially entailed that the uterine lining, which typically comes out during one’s period, started growing outside the uterus and thus couldn’t be shed. It could stick one’s organs together, cause scarring, and contribute to unbelievably heavy, painful periods, amongst other things. “But there’s nothing you can do about that. It doesn’t have a cure.”

“Sadly, you’re right — endometriosis is a chronic, incurable illness.” But the doctor hadn’t given Cersei time to consider how overwhelmingly awful it would be to be stuck with periods like this until she hit menopause before continuing her thought. “That doesn’t mean there’s nothing we can do for you, though.”

“What can you possibly do if there isn’t a cure?” Oh, she was _trying_ to be polite, but it was so difficult in the face of this life-changing, life- _ruining_ information.

“There are plenty of options as far as treatment goes, if that diagnosis is correct. We will definitely be able to ease your pain and your discomfort, Cersei — don’t you worry about that.” The doctor offered a sympathetic smile; Cersei wondered how many people she’d had to have this conversation with before. 

“It’s a little tricky to confirm, though,” she continued. “The only way to know for sure that someone has endometriosis is to perform a laparoscopy, which is a surgical procedure allowing us to look inside your belly with a tiny camera and see for ourselves if you’ve been affected. We would also be able to remove any adhesions or scar tissue that we found, which is one of the most effective treatments there is for this illness. Then, at your follow-up appointment after the procedure, we could discuss what else to try from there. A laparoscopy is a fairly simple procedure from the patient’s end — you’d be able to go home the same day, and it only takes around two weeks to fully recover. But it is still a major surgery, so if you need some time to think about it—“

“No. I’ll do it.”

The words had escaped Cersei’s mouth before she was fully conscious that she was going to say them, but she did not — _would_ not — take them back. What the doctor said confirmed everything she had read online. If this was what was wrong with her, she could treat the symptoms, but that would only mask the problem. No, there was no cure, but there _was_ the option of having as much of the disease removed from inside her as she could. It would grow back eventually, but that could take years. All in all? Having the surgery was undoubtedly the best choice.

“I’ll do it,” Cersei said once more, and they began to make plans.

 

~

 

“Has anyone informed you of what, exactly, this procedure entails?” asks Father as Cersei fiddles with the itchy tape keeping her IV secured to the back of her hand. He has personally driven her to each of these appointments rather than send her with a driver and waited for her in the reception area each time, but has never accompanied her to the exam room (which, in all fairness, is as much her choice as his own) or asked for details about her conversations with the doctors and nurses she has seen. 

Even so, it is a more overt show of emotional support than she has received from him in recent memory — in memory at _all_ , really. A soft smile flits across her features. “They have,” she says. “They start by making four little incisions: here, here, here, and here.” Points first just under her belly button; then a little above it, on the left side of her abdomen; then to two points on either side of her lower belly. “Then, they pump you up with air so they can move the tools around inside you. There’s a little camera that lets them see what they’re doing — if it _is_ endometriosis, they’ll be able to see where it’s located. It’s different for everyone. Some people have it just on their uterus, but others get it on their intestines or kidneys or other parts of the body.”

“I saw a thing online about one lady who had it on her _lungs_ ,” says Jaime with a faint expression of horror. If Father weren’t here, Cersei would remark on how sweet it is that he’s done his own research on the matter, simply because it affects _her_ — instead, she simply offers him a smile and hopes that her cheeks haven’t gone too pink.

“Yeah, it can go anywhere. It’s… unnerving.” She chuckles softly, shakes her head, ignores the vague anxiety that washes over her with the thought that she, too, might be one of those patients with disease eating away at not just the parts of her that might be expected, but at parts she wouldn’t have considered at all. 

Jaime seems to pick up on her discomfort — he rests a hand briefly on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze, running the pad of his thumb over her clavicle. It isn’t a lengthy touch, much as she wishes it could be, but it _is_ a meaningful one, and she manages another smile.

“Anyway,” she says, returning to the question at hand, “once they find the adhesions — and any scar tissue or anything like that, as well — they can excise it. Take it off.”

Father nods, crossing his arms contemplatively as he mulls over what she has told him. “And does that help? Does that prevent it from returning?”

“No.” Cersei shakes her head, stubbornly refusing the defeated frown that threatens to tug the corners of her lips downward. “No, it doesn’t always mean it won’t come back. There isn’t a cure for this, you know — it’s a lifelong thing. But it _does_ help. The doctor said having this surgery is one of the best things that can be done for it, and there are things we can do afterward to help with the symptoms.” 

A sly smile grows upon her features then, a mischievous glimmer appearing in those emerald eyes. “For example,” she says as naturally as possible, keeping Jaime in her peripheral vision, “there is one thing that keeps the adhesions from growing back so quickly, and that’s hormonal birth control.” 

Oh, she’s glad her brother is facing her, out of their father’s line of sight, because his eyes grow to the size of dinner plates. It is all Cersei can do to keep her own expression neutral and tone of voice matter-of-fact as she continues. “She said the Pill helps a lot of patients, but there’s also an injection version that’s even better. You just get it every three months. That way, you don’t ever have to worry about forgetting a dose.”

She and Jaime aren’t touching at the moment, but she imagines that if they were, she would be able to feel his heart absolutely _racing_ beneath his skin. When their eyes meet, she gives him a look that no one but her twin would be able to read: _Yes, it legitimately helps with endometriosis; yes, I also want it for all the reasons you’re thinking_. Jaime’s cheeks flush pink, and Cersei wishes she could lean forward and kiss them.

For his part, Father remains oblivious; he simply gives a little shrug of agreement. “I recall seeing something about it on the information pamphlet the doctor sent home with you. You’ll need to speak with her when she writes the prescription, ensure you’re getting the best version available.”

Cersei nods. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

She is just thinking that insisting she get the best medication seems to be one of those rare, somewhat touching ways Father indicates that he may actually love his children deep down inside, even if he’ll never say it aloud, when the same nurse who stuck her IV pulls back the curtain and enters the room. “Alright, Miss Cersei,” she says, leading Cersei to wonder why medical professionals seem to enjoy calling her that so often, “let’s get you going. Are you ready?”

And though her heartbeat speeds up at the question, she nods. “I am.”

While the nurse lifts the rails on either side of her hospital bed and prepares to roll it toward the operating room, she addresses Father and Jaime: “We’ll have someone lead you to the recovery room here in a sec. There’s a little TV screen in there that will tell you when we’re done operating, then when she’s ready to be moved into her own room. After that, it’ll just be a couple of hours in recovery, then you can get her home! Y’all want some hugs before I take her back?”

As if Jaime would ever say no. He wraps his arms tight around her, enveloping her in that familiar warmth and security, and she breathes in his scent to hold in her mind to help ease her nerves. “Good luck, Sissy,” he murmurs against her hair, and she can’t help but grin.

She isn’t certain what to expect from Father… but that grin widens when he puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her a little squeeze. She has received more affection from him in the last month than in multiple years prior — oh, it will end soon enough, but until then, she can almost pretend he is a normal father with a normal daughter that he actually pays attention to sometimes. “We’ll see you soon,” he says.

And the certainty in his voice — the sort she never hears him speak without — serves to ease her nerves as well. Cersei imagines most people consider all the things that could go horribly wrong when being wheeled into surgery, and she is no exception, but if Tywin Lannister says he’ll see her soon, then he’ll see her soon. 

Before long, she’s being whisked away. Extends an arm over her head to offer one more wave to her family, then folds her arms over her belly and settles in for the ride. It doesn’t take long for them to reach the operating room; she reminds herself that she is a lioness, and she has nothing to fear. Nothing to fear as she switches from her bed to the operating table; nothing to fear as the nurse takes her vitals; nothing to fear as she’s introduced to the anesthesiologist…

And nothing to fear as they instruct her to count backward from ten while the anesthesia takes hold. She makes it to six before falling asleep with a faint smile upon her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains more information than feels, but also some feels... next time, be prepared for more feels than information! :) 
> 
> i wanted to make a quick note to acknowledge that in real life, it is almost never this easy to reach the point of this diagnostic surgery. most of us experience COUNTLESS doctor's appointments, emergency room visits, various tests, and heartache before we get to the operating room. first, we have to find medical professionals who will take us seriously in the first place -- which may sound like the simplest part, but can in fact be the hardest. then, since the only way to diagnose endometriosis is via surgery, other tests are typically run first to rule out other possibilities. this can take years; in fact, the average endo patient has to wait a decade between when they start trying to find answers and when they are actually diagnosed. a DECADE. 
> 
> even after we receive a diagnosis and treatment, there are multiple other illnesses that are often comorbid with endometriosis that aren't always recognized so early (personally, i suffer from multiple other conditions that all serve to make each other worse, and i have very specific headcanons about cersei's as well -- i haven't decided yet if i'll address them in this story or not). and then there's the struggle of any chronically ill person after diagnosis: okay, i know what's wrong with me... and it's going to be wrong with me for the rest of my life. how do i cope with this?
> 
> all this to say that cersei's journey here is not typical whatsoever, due to both her family's wealth and power (they're able to pull a lot of strings that not everyone is able to pull) as well as purposeful choices on my behalf. and also that there's a lot that's been left out of her journey to make this story more readable. if i wanted to make everything perfectly accurate, it would be very long and VERY boring. i've tried to condense things into a narrative that's entertaining, factually based, and a little educational -- hopefully i've succeeded!
> 
> as always, thank you all for reading. i have a feeling you're going to like the next chapter -- it'll be very cute. :)


End file.
